Chapter 8 - The Watchmaker’s Name
My grandfather repaired watches in a narrow shop on Brown Street.
When I told JJ about him, I began with the magnifying lens he wore over one eye and the little drawers full of springs too small for my childhood fingers.
“He could fix anything?” JJ asked.
“Almost anything.”
“Dinosaurs?”
“Only the ones who made appointments.”
JJ considered that seriously.
Then he asked whether Grandpa Owen would have liked Gerald.
“He would have made him a tiny watch.”
My son smiled.
For the first time since the garage, the name Owen entered our house without grief attached to what I had surrendered.
It was simply a story I could give my child.
By spring, the house had sold.
I rented a small place fifteen minutes from Brandon’s apartment, close enough to preserve JJ’s preschool and far enough that Diane could not appear on our porch under the excuse of passing by.
The kitchen had yellow cabinets.
One bedroom window stuck.
The backyard was barely large enough for a plastic slide.
I loved it immediately.
Rachel helped unpack while Marcus assembled a bookshelf with the expression of a man reconsidering all his life choices.
JJ placed Gerald on the highest shelf.
“So he can watch.”
“Reasonable management strategy,” Marcus said.
We ate takeout on the floor.
Nobody mentioned what I had lost.
They asked where I wanted the table.
At work, I applied for a supervisory position I had avoided pursuing because Brandon said the evening coursework would make family life complicated.
The director asked why I was ready now.
“I’ve been doing much of the work for two years,” I said. “I’d like the authority and compensation to match.”
She smiled.
Three weeks later, I got the job.
My divorce did not transform me into a fearless woman overnight.
Some evenings, the silence after JJ went to his father’s felt so sharp I left the television on in another room.
Sometimes I missed Brandon so intensely that I forgot for a moment why we were apart.
Then I would remember that missing someone was not the same as wanting the life back.
We learned to exchange information without reopening the marriage.
Preschool forms.
Dentist appointments.
The location of Gerald.
Brandon continued counseling. He stopped allowing Diane to narrate his decisions.
Their relationship became strained.
He did not ask me to repair it.
Frank visited my new place one Saturday carrying tomato seedlings.
“I figured store-bought had run its course.”
I laughed and invited him in.
He helped JJ plant them in buckets along the fence.
Before leaving, he apologized again.
“I used quiet as an excuse for too long.”
“You can do something different now.”
“I’m trying.”
Over the summer, Kelsey sent me a letter.
Not a text that demanded an immediate response. A letter.
She admitted she had defended the family because questioning Brandon meant questioning how they had treated me.
She did not ask to be forgiven.
I put it in a drawer.
A month later, I answered.
Our relationship did not become close.
It became possible.
Diane took longer.
Her first apology contained the phrase if you felt.
I returned it.
Her second blamed grief.
I did not respond.
Eventually, Brandon told her plainly that seeing JJ required respecting both his parents and stopping the mythology around his name.
She began meeting him in public places with Brandon present.
There were no instant reconciliations.
There were clear conditions.
That autumn, JJ’s preschool hosted a family-history day.
Children brought photographs and stories about someone important.
He chose Grandpa Owen.
We carried an old pocket watch into class inside a padded box.
As I explained the watchmaker’s shop, JJ stood beside me beaming.
“My mommy says he fixed little things carefully.”
I looked down at him.
“Yes,” I said.
“And he didn’t throw stuff away just ’cause it was old.”
His teacher smiled.
Afterward, walking to the car, he slipped his hand into mine.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“I like being JJ.”
I squeezed his fingers.
May you like
“Then JJ is exactly who you get to be.”
For the rest of the afternoon, the name sounded like nothing but my son.
